More than Memories
by RedBlaze1
Summary: A night that starts out inflicting the pain and horror of war ends in a way Ron had never expected. A story of love that stands the test of time, and of a passion undeniable, even in the face of heart-wrenching betrayal. Started pre-HBP, now AU :
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The last glow of muggle street lamps surrounded him as Ron looked at his hands. The rain turned the blood pink as it pooled off his palms and dropped to the muddy ground, erasing all his sins in the process. He tilted his head up, letting the icy down pour cool the raging adrenaline rush that was still pumping through his veins. God, it was nights like this that he hated being an Auror.

The Death Eaters were gone. They'd Disapparated away, leaving only their fallen mate behind. Ron was alone. He was sent on this mission strictly for surveillance purposes and it only took one man to do that. It was just his rotten luck to have been found out. As Ron stood there getting soaked to the bone, shivering, he realized that he couldn't Disapparate. His shoulder was killing him. It could very likely be broken. He was just too drained. He'd splinch himself for sure.

Quickly he took in his surroundings, forcing his brain to remember where he was. Maybe there was a wizard home near by. He'd be able to use their fire to floo home. He certainly couldn't stay out in this rain all night; he'd catch his death.

He relaxed a little when he noted that he wasn't far from Harry's cabin. The gods were smiling on him a little after all. He wouldn't have to bother anyone. It was quite late, almost midnight by Ron's guess. Harry never used that old cabin, the only reason he bought it was to get away when he was on holiday from work, but the problem was, Harry never went on holiday. The place had about a year's worth of dust the last time Ron had saw it and that'd been a while ago.

He set out, dreading over a mile walk in the rain, and cold rain at that. It was really his only option. So he set out, thinking about the store of Fire Whiskey Harry always kept there, willing his feet to move despite his body's protests.

He had to light his wand once he got to the woods; the moon provided little light, especially with the storm that thundered around him. Every once in a while the forest would glow brightly for a spilt second as lighting flashed, but other than that, it was just the single beam from his wand glowing as he walked past the trees and shadows.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the gray outline of the cabin. He considered kipping there for the night, but really, it was a bit rustic for Ron's tastes. He preferred his nice, modern flat. He'd never understand Harry, all that money and he buys rickety old cabins in the woods. His best mate was becoming a right eccentric in his old age.

Once Ron got closer, he noticed that the windows glowed from candle light inside. He frowned as he got continued to walk nearer. He knew Harry was gone on a mission, and Ron was quite certain that Harry wasn't anywhere near. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in defensiveness. Two years of training and five years of being one of the top Aurors in the ministry made him more than a little jumpy. He didn't like that someone was staying in a cabin no one was supposed to know existed. In fact, Ron was almost sure that Harry had cast glamour spells on it so that only a select few people in Harry's inner circle could actually see it to begin with. He wanted to know who was in there.

Despite his shoulder that was throbbing in pain, and the icy rain that had long since chilled him to the bone, Ron pushed forward, moving stealthily through the trees until he was close enough to look in, but still remain hidden in the shadows.

He noted that whomever was staying there had cleaned it up. Curtains hung in windows that had once been bare, and from what Ron could see there was no dust anywhere. It looked almost immaculate, quaint and kind of feminine, definitely not something Harry would do. Suddenly, realization hit him. Ice flooded Ron's veins, and it had nothing to do with the rain, he stumbled and backed against the tree, knowing who was in there before she appeared.

And she did appear.

He watched her come from kitchen, a cup of tea in her hand, her long curly hair tied in a loose bun with curls springing free all over the place. She had on a simple white nightdress, very conservative, very her. Even so, in the light, he could almost swear he was seeing the outline of her breasts through the light cotton, the faint darkness of her nipples, puckered from the cold evening.

No, he was filling that in himself. His mind was playing tricks on him due to cold, and pain, and loneliness. God, he missed her. He missed her everyday. No woman, nameless or not, could replace her. He'd tried, he really had, but it just didn't work. One night with Hermione had ruined him for life, and he'd give just about anything to take it back. Yet, even as he thought that, his mind flooded with memories. He could still feel her naked body against his, her hands fisted in his hair, clinging to him for dear life, as she called out his name in broken sobs.

He hadn't meant for it to happen. He'd wanted nothing more than to offer her a shoulder to cry on, to give her some small bit of comfort while she mourned for her parents, but something had happened and even now he had no idea what. One minute Ron had been holding her, crying with her, feeling his heart break over the pain she was in and the next she was kissing him. Her lips were soft and wet against his, salty from the tears that were still flowing down her face. Then her hands were on him, touching him, running underneath his jumper to come in contact with naked flesh. Her voice had been low and pleading against his ear, begging him to make the pain stop, to let her feel something, anything but what she was feeling now.

It had been far too much for a seventeen year-old boy to handle. He'd spent the better part of three years fantasizing about her, and there she was, begging him, Ron Weasley, to make love to her. He couldn't have turned her away even if he'd wanted to. He would have done anything for her at that moment.

He still couldn't decide if the sacrifice had been worth it. He had eased her pain for a bit, but in the morning things had been awkward. He had felt guilty, thinking he'd taken advantage of her. That night had been the best moment of his life, but it had happened because Hermione's parents had been brutally murdered by Death Eaters. It made him feel terrible, and it was made worse by Hermione. She had avoided him after that, never really looking him in the eye. They were polite to each other, never arguing, never bantering, and never laughing.

Ron had hated it. It made him miserable. All that was dear to him was dead, devoid of passion. He'd rather stay away, than just pretend that it hadn't happened. It broke his heart to hear Hermione's voice dull and impassive as she spoke to him.

It had been over seven years since he saw her. They'd separated after school, with Harry and Ron going into Auror training and Hermione working for the Department of Mysteries, doing what, he never knew. She traveled a lot and had actually ended up being stationed in France the last Ron had heard. Harry kept in touch with her, but he seldom mentioned her to Ron, somehow knowing that it was too painful for him to hear, even if he didn't really know the details of their rift between the two of them.

And now, there she was, looking just as beautiful as he had remembered, even more so. From the distance it seemed her features had softened with adulthood. Her hair was darker, and looked slightly tamer, but it was up, so he could be wrong. Her figure was a little rounder, more womanly, rather than holding the last few angles of childhood like it had when he'd been with her. She was still short, slim and elegant in her own way. He was in love with her, the distance hadn't changed anything, and that terrified him. He was seriously considering just staying out in the rain that was still freezing, still soaking him to the bone, when he saw her turn to look out the window. Her eyes narrowed to peer through the murky wet darkness, and then widened. Ron cursed out loud when he realized that his wand was still lit. He'd been distracted and forgot all about it. Some Auror he was.

Hermione moved toward the door and Ron extinguished his wand before she could see who it was outside her window. He moved to hide behind the tree when the door opened and Hermione looked out, holding a hand over her head to keep her hair dry as she called out.

"Ron?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Hermione's heart was beating rapidly as she waited for an answer to her call, but none came. She was positive that she'd seen Ron. She wasn't going mad. She'd know that tall frame and shock of red hair anywhere, even if it had just been a glimpse of it in the single light of a wand.

She gripped the wand in her hand tighter. It could be a trick. Death Eaters weren't past using glamour spells or polyjuice potion to gain ones trust.

"I recommend you answer me or I'm going to start throwing hexes, and you don't want that," she snapped into the darkness, lowering her hand that was blocking some of the rain bouncing off the house.

A clap of thunder sounded in the distance as she caught the echo of shuffling feet and a few choice words that made her almost certain that it was the real Ron.

"I'm not joking. . . I suggest you show yourself," Hermione said, surprising herself at her fierceness.

"Okay! Blimey, you've got rather grouchy since I last saw you," she heard a gruff voice mutter as Ron stepped from behind the large oak tree he'd been hiding behind.

It was on the tip of Hermione's tongue to reprimand him, to snap at him for hiding from her in the dark and scaring her half to death, but then she caught a good look at him. Of course, he was still very tall maybe even gaining an inch or two. His hair was still red, though it was soaked, so she couldn't tell if it had got darker and that was where the similarity ended with the boy she remembered.

He'd grown into his frame and was actually a very large man, which was surprising. All this time she'd been picturing him as somewhat thin and lankly like he had been. His face was very masculine, no longer youthful as she'd held him in her mind. Ron had on a simple pair of jeans and a black shirt that was sticking to him, due to the rain, leaving very little to the imagination. Hermione could see the outline of strong, hard muscles underneath it. She was reluctant to admit it, but he looked incredible. She wasn't prepared for how handsome he'd grown. For some reason, she had never once considered that he'd changed over the years. Harry certainly had never mentioned it, but then again, Harry was Harry and he probably hadn't noticed.

"Can I come in or are you going to let me stand out in this rain all night?"

Hermione blinked at his annoyance, shocked. He'd been very dull and passive with her before she'd left, painfully bland, not the Ron she knew. Now, though, he sounded much more like the Ron she'd missed all these years.

"What are you doing out in the rain, anyway?" she asked, more as a distraction against her raging emotions.

"Oh, I just thought I'd go for a stroll, freeze my arse off, and maybe catch my death," Ron said in a deadpan voice, before he stepped closer to her, looking at her seriously. "I'm working, Hermione. Can I come in or not?"

She stepped aside, and Ron moved past her, his frame filled the doorway, and his arm brushed against hers, sending a tingle through it, She wasn't ready for this. Memories of him still haunted her. When she closed her eyes at night all she'd hear was his voice, deep against her ear as he moaned her name, sliding into her, filling her. She hadn't even felt the pain her first time, her emotions had been too raw. All she'd felt was him connecting with her, their souls merging as one, if only for a short time.

It wasn't until the next morning that the reality of what she'd done had hit her. She'd thrown herself at Ron brazenly. She'd behaved just like a scarlet woman. She'd begged Ron to make love to her. She'd never get over the humiliation of it all. Even now, staring at him over seven years later, she still felt her face heat up. Maybe, it wouldn't have been so bad if Ron had returned her feelings, if he had loved her, but he'd been just as awkward the next morning, as through miserable that it had happened.

She'd ruined their friendship because she'd been too weak to deny her feelings. She'd spent years keeping them carefully hidden, but in a moment of extreme sorrow they'd poured out of her in desperate actions, and there was nothing she could do to take it all back. That night she had lost her parents and one of her best friends. It was something she didn't think she'd ever fully recover from and it was far more than she'd been able to face.

So, she'd left. She'd accepted a position with the Department of Mysteries that allowed her to travel. She buried herself in old volumes studying the most deadly and complex magic, and working with some of the wizarding world's greatest minds to develop defenses against it. She liked her work. She loved to travel and felt like she was making a difference in the process. It was her way of helping the fight.

Of course, what she did was hardly exciting in comparison to Ron and Harry, who dedicated themselves to field work. Hermione kept in close contact with Harry, unwilling to lose two friends because of her lack of judgment. Sometimes he'd disappear for months at time, only to return beaten, tired, and a little more world-weary than he had been before he left. She was sure Ron was no different. In fact, as she looked at him now, dripping wet, shaking from the cold, she noticed that his face had lines that a twenty five year old shouldn't have, his eyes spoke volumes about what he did.

"Do you have some floo powder? I'll just use it to get home," Ron mumbled, shifting apprehensively, looking around the small living room as though the walls were caving in on him.

Hermione felt her guard go up. True, they hadn't been close in the past several years, but she'd been his friend for a long time. He was being down right rude for someone who hadn't seen her in seven years.

"Well, hello to you too, Ron," she snapped going to the mantle over the fireplace, grabbing a small container of floo powder and thrusting it at him.

Ron reached to take the container from her, wincing sharply when he moved, and Hermione peered at him closer. He was pale, a faint misty steam was coming off his large body, obviously from the ice-cold rain that drenched him, his lips were near blue, and the crease between his eyebrows told her that he was in pain and trying very hard to hide it. He hadn't changed that much after all.

"You're hurt," she whispered, feeling all the anger drain out of her. "Tell me what's wrong. "

"It's nothing," Ron said, shaking his head. "I've just had a bad night."

Hermione went to the desk and grabbed a chair then pushed Ron into it. He winced again, stifling a curse when she put a hand on his shoulder. At least now she knew where he was hurting. He resisted her at first, but when she started casting warming spells over him, drying his clothes and heating his skin, he stopped complaining. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair, allowing her to help him as though it had only been seven days rather than seven years since they'd last seen each other.

At first, she was only concentrating on warming Ron up. He'd catch pneumonia in the state he'd been in. His skin was freezing. When she noted that some of his color returned, she focused on his shoulder. She had to cut his shirt off him, since he wasn't able to lift his arm. Hermione determined instantly that he'd broken it. It was a wonder that he'd been able to withstand that much pain, without crying out. As she poked and prodded at the freckled flesh he finally asked her if she knew where Harry's store of alcohol was.

Hermione didn't condone heavy drinking, being very against anything that confused the mind. She'd almost thrown out Harry's stash of liquor, which was considerable, but she hadn't. He'd been nice enough to offer her a place to stay when she transferred back to England. She hadn't had time to look for a flat straight away, and she very much enjoyed his quiet cabin, it was a great place to think. So, she let it go.

Hermione got up and searched through the kitchen cabinets until she located a large bottle of Fire Whiskey. She handed it to Ron and arched an eyebrow when he drank far more than she thought was necessary to take the edge off the pain.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Hermione said as she got back on her knees in front of him, feeling around his shoulder, noting that it was a pretty bad break. She wanted to know what happened, but knew better than to ask

"It'd take a lot more than this to make me sick," Ron said taking another drink, and then looking down at her with a small smile.

"I'll take your word for it. I'm sure you've tested your limits many times."

"Once or twice." Ron laughed painfully. "I've missed you. How are you?"

Hermione stopped poking at him, and looked up. His gaze ran over her face as though reacquainting himself with her features. It made her throat feel dry and she choked on her answer. "I'm. . . good. How are you?"

"I've been better," he said, taking another drink. "Although, seeing you is nice. Sorry I was a prat earlier. I just didn't want to disturb you."

Hermione frowned at him. "Disturb me? Ron, you should know that you wouldn't disturb me. We're still friends, aren't we?"

Ron studied her, his eyes clouding over for just a moment before he smiled weakly. "Yes, Hermione. We're still friends."

Hermione nodded, more than willing to leave everything else unsaid. She felt at Ron's shoulder for a few more seconds. "It's broken."

"I'd pretty much worked that out. Can you fix it?"

Hermione bit her lip, hesitating for a bit. "I can, yes, but I don't think it'd be as good as a healer could do."

"I trust you."

"Maybe you shouldn't. . . Medical charms aren't my specialty. You'd be far better off going to St. Mungo's."

"I'd rather not. I've been there enough," Ron said, turning slightly red, just as he had when he was a boy.

"Oh," Hermione mumbled, again wondering what had happened to him that he'd ended up in St. Mungo's more than once. "Well, I guess I can do it then."

Hermione took a few deep breaths to clear her head, and then started performing the healing charms. He let out a huge sigh of relief when she was done. She set her wand on the table and looked up at him. Ron gave her a brilliant smile, one of those smiles that went straight to her heart.

"See, I knew you could do it," he said, moving and stretching his arm. "It's perfect, better than the healers could do. I've had more than a few bones mended by them and they never do this good of a job. It usually aches for days after."

Hermione had only been half listening to him, she was distracted by the way his muscles moved and shifted as he stretched his arm. She noticed that he did have several faint scars over his chest and arms; they were just a shade darker than the rest of his skin, slightly pink against the pale freckled flesh. They weren't ugly or disfiguring. Actually, Hermione thought they were rather attractive. The scars added character to him and made it rapidly apparent how very masculine he was, not that Hermione was having a hard time grasping that.

Entranced, she reached out and ran a finger over one jagged scar, wincing at what a terrible wound it must have been before it was healed. It ran from his collarbone all the way down to the center of his chest. Usually, you could heal a flesh wound with no markings left on the skin. It would have had to been a very severe injury or several days old by the time it was treated to leave such blatant evidence. Hermione guessed it was a little of both.

He shivered, and Hermione watched goose bumps spread across the flesh she touched. Suddenly, Ron's large hand closed over hers, trapping it against his warm skin. She looked up, disappointed that he'd stopped her, but felt a shiver of her own when she saw how he was looking at her.

"Don't. . ." Ron started, his voice cracking as though he hadn't used it in years. He licked his lips and closed his eyes for a second. ". . . don't look at me like that, Hermione."

Hermione wasn't stupid. She hadn't had much experience with men, but she did know when one wanted her and she was fairly certain Ron wanted her. It sent a thrill through her. Her life had been painfully lonely these past many years, simple and organized, but not much more. She'd almost forgot the spark Ron had added to it. The excitement she'd felt in his presence.

Their friendship was already in tatters. By analyzing the situation she realized that she really had nothing to lose by acting on impulse. If Ron was gone in the morning she'd be no worse off than she was before he'd shown up. So, she licked her own lips, and spoke.

"Why not?"

At the sound of Hermione's voice, low and teasing, Ron's jeans tightened uncomfortably. He shifted, still holding her hand against his chest, his skin tingling from her touch.

Never in a million years would he have guessed that he'd end such a dreadful night with Hermione looking at him the way she was right now, and touching him the way she had been, in reverence, biting her lip as she studied him. It had been the most sensual thing Ron had ever seen. It was almost worth the suffering he'd gone through getting the scar she found so fascinating.

Gods, he wanted her. There had been so much that had been left undone the first time they'd been together. He'd been a bumbling idiot, too caught up in new sensations to really pay attention to what he was doing. Still, he didn't want to hurt her like he had the last time. They'd both suffered for years because of his mistake.

"Hermione, this isn't a game," he reminded her.

Hermione nodded, still looking at him, her eyes hot with desire. "I know."

She was so beautiful kneeling before him, her skin was rosy against the white nightdress she wore, her face was flushed in anticipation, framed by chestnut curls that sprang free from the bun she'd pulled her hair into. She looked nervous, and still so innocent, but sensual and womanly all at the same time.

Ron hadn't had the strength to resist her at seventeen. He'd have liked to believe that over the years he'd gained a little more willpower, but he hadn't. Her effect over him was as strong as ever, and he was still powerless against it. It was nothing like the one-night stands he sometimes indulged in to kill the pain his life inflicted on him. This was exciting and new, yet warm and comfortable at the same time. He marveled that time and space hadn't killed the companionship he felt with Hermione. Being around her was effortless, like she'd never left.

He reached out to her, freeing her hand and holding her face between his large palms. They stared at each other in awe at something so fast and unexpected, and he would have told her then. He would have said that he'd always loved her, that he'd never stopped, not for one minute, but instead, she leaned into him, kissing him gently, and all sense of thought left him.

Her lips parted with a soft sigh and his tongue invaded her mouth, desperate to breathe her in, to know her after so long. Ron groaned at the fire that speared through him. She was just as soft, just as sweet as he remembered, tasting of raspberry tea, and something more, something that was just Hermione. He'd often thought that he'd somehow built her up in his mind over the years, that the incredible memories burned into his mind were a young boys reaction to being kissed by a girl he'd always desired, but he'd been wrong. It had nothing to do with anything other than them and the connection they shared.

His hands fumbled in her hair until it sprang free from it's confines, spilling around her in a glowing tangle of curls that smelled of flowers, and made her look like a goddess. Without thinking, he got up off the chair, never letting her go as he dropped to his knees, the fire casting a warm glow over their skin as they fell to the hearthrug.

OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Readers 18 or older. . . Feel free to search for unedited versions of my stories on The Quidditch Pitch (another fan fiction site) I write under the pennames of Bluerain and Redblaze :D

And if you're interested in updates on all of my writing. . . Feel free to follow me:

On facebook—Kele Moon

On twitter: Kele_Moon


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

He tasted like whiskey, hot and heady. He smelled of earth, and rain. His hair was still wet, cold against her fingers as she threaded them into it. Oh and he was so hard, so warm, so very solid, pressed against her.

He continued to kiss her, exploring her mouth, making a low noise in the back of his throat when her tongue boldly brushed against his. After a bit, Ron pulled up to gaze down at her, his eyes glowed a vibrant blue, reflecting the orange flames of the fire. He looked like he wanted to say something. He seemed so very serious all of a sudden and Hermione panicked. What if he wanted to stop?

She reached up, once again lacing her hands into his red hair, and brought his face back to hers. His words were muffed against her lips as she kissed him fiercely. She'd never know what he wanted to say, and in truth, she didn't care, because she heard his moan of defeat, felt him shudder in surrender. He was hers for the night and that's all she wanted.

Ron's rough hand slid up her leg, slipping underneath her nightdress to the bare skin to of her thigh. Just that simple caress was enough to make Hermione break the kiss. Her head fell back against the fur rug as she moved her hips against his, arching into him.

"I'm going to make it good for you this time," he said as he studied her face, his eyes so very sincere.

"It was good last time." Hermione sighed, for once welcoming the memories of being with him without the fear of loneliness that usually accompanied them.

Ron laughed bitterly. "Are you kidding? I was an idiot. I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I probably suffer poorly in comparison with the other men you've been with."

Hermione frowned, tilting her head back so he wouldn't see the look on her face. She didn't know why it hurt her to know that Ron assumed she'd been with others besides him, but it did. She'd never come close to sharing with another man what she had with Ron, and she certainly hadn't had another lover.

Ron's mind reeled with a sudden realization as he studied Hermione. It was in her movements against him, her voice so pure and unrehearsed. Nothing was out of habit, it was all on instinct, still innocent and full of wonder when, by twenty-four, it should have been a little jaded.

"There were no other men," he whispered, the words barely choking past his throat that was suddenly tight with emotion.

Hermione's eyes opened, they were still clouded with desire, but she'd heard him and smiled. "No, you were the only one I'd ever wanted to be with. I'm particular."

Ron would have laughed, but guilt flooded him. He felt tarnished, and suddenly wished that he'd had the will power to keep what was between the two of them sacred like Hermione had. He let his head fall against her chest, his forehead resting between her breasts as he took a deep breath.

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It doesn't matter," she said soothingly, running her fingers through his hair in a gentle caress.

"I'm not a very good man. You'd have been better off remembering me at eighteen."

"Of course you're a good man. I know you are."

He shook his head, unwillingly remembering the Death Eater he'd killed that night. "I've done horrible things."

"You've done what you had to in order to survive. You're fighting for what is right, and that's what's important," Hermione said as her fingers trailed from his hair to his shoulders and over his naked back.

"I feel like I've lost my soul to this war. I hadn't realized how much of me was gone until I saw you again," he mumbled, still unwilling to look her in the eye.

"We've all lost parts of ourselves, but you're still there. I can see it."

Ron felt comfort from her words. If she still saw good in him, then maybe it was there somewhere. Hermione was by far the smartest witch he'd ever met and she was seldom wrong about anything. He lifted his head and blinked up at her. He was far too cynical to cry anymore, but the sting was there. He loved Hermione, but he couldn't stay. His life was full of darkness and he'd sooner turn his wand on himself than to let that affect her.

"I can't offer you anything, you know that," Ron said, not wanting to hurt her anymore than he already had.

"I know. Our lives are very different now," Hermione said, not sounding at all bitter despite the emotion in her voice. "Just give me a small piece of you tonight. That's what I want."

"If that's what you want, I'll gladly give it," Ron said, feeling like it was hardly valuable.

"You make sure you remember that promise," Hermione said, surprisingly solemn as she laced her fingers into his hair and bring his face close to hers. "Will you remember it?"

He frowned at her, not sure what exactly she was getting at. "You can have any part of me you want, there isn't much good left, but what's there is yours."

She smiled brilliantly at him and tugged on his hair, pulling him down until her lips brushed his. "Good, then stop talking and make love to me."

xoxoxoxoxo

Ron sat on the hearthrug, one arm resting on his knees as he stared into the fire. He took a long drink out of the bottle of whiskey at his side, thinking that he owed Harry a hell of a lot for storing it there. He needed the edges of reality to be a bit blurred. His conscience had suffered enough for one night.

He looked from the fire to Hermione, still sleeping, curled up under the blanket he'd covered her with when he discovered he wouldn't be able to rest with her warm and naked against him. In sleep, she'd turned to her side, and Ron knew that if he leaned forward a little, the smooth lines of her bare back would be visible. He stared at the long tangle of brown curls that fell around her, watching it reflect strands of gold in the firelight. What he really needed was a cigarette, something to do with his hands so they wouldn't itch to touch her again. Maybe Harry had some of those stored around there too. The muggle cigarettes that he preferred, the ones brilliantly pre packaged so that you didn't have to roll them yourself.

Too lazy to get up and look, Ron stayed where he was, watching Hermione and working his way through Harry's whiskey. He'd have to leave in a few hours, and his heart was already breaking. He wanted to stay with her. The whimsical part of him that life hadn't beaten down yet, longed for a relationship, but he knew he couldn't have that. His work had him gone for months at a time, and the things he involved himself in were dangerous. A romantic interest would make his life and his work very difficult. Hermione was capable of taking care of herself, but even so, he couldn't afford the weakness his worry would cause him. Vulnerability like that got blokes killed.

Merlin, but it didn't help the pain.

He was just contemplating waking her and loving her one more time before he had to go, when she stirred. Hermione rolled onto her back, the movement causing the blanket to slip, exposing one perfectly round breast, and Ron watched, entranced, as her arms stretched, and her back bowed like a cat waking up from a long nap.

He smiled, remembering something out of the blue.

"Did you ever finish your animgus training?"

Hermione smiled sleepily, and turned her head to look at him, her eyes blinking a few times as she came into full wakefulness. "Of course, did you have a doubt?"

"Nope. . . Hermione Granger always finishes what she starts, doesn't she?"

"I'd show you, but I'm too lazy, maybe later."

"Oh, I don't know. . . You look sort of cat like right now. It's what got me thinking of it."

"Like the cat who got the cream," Hermione murmured, rolling onto her side.

Ron choked on the drink he'd just brought to his lips, coughing and spraying whiskey over himself and then he laughed, unable to hide his shock. Hermione laughed with him and there was something so endearing about it all. She looked so incredibly beautiful lying there and laughing on the fur rug, wearing firelight and still glowing from the aftermath of their lovemaking.

Ron set the whiskey aside, and crawled to her, letting his eyes roam over the parts of her body not covered by the blanket. Her hair was mused and curls sprung out at odd angles. He tucked a few of the wild strands behind her ear, knowing that the love he felt must be visible on his face, and sure enough, Hermione's giggles subsided as she looked up at him.

The whiskey had done more than he intended, it made it seem very simple to admit things he shouldn't. It'd be so easy to tell her that he'd never grown out of his boyhood crush, or that he'd always preferred women with long, curly hair. He could tell her that Harry always laughed at him when his eyes would dart towards the Muggle girls in cafes, reading and drinking their coffee, not because they were particularly pretty, rather that Ron didn't think there was anything sexier then seeing a woman totally engrossed in a book, chewing on her lip and twirling strands of long hair around her fingers the way Hermione had done in school. There were a million more examples of how not having Hermione around had left a gapping hole in his life, one that he tried to fill in other ways, but never came close to succeeding.

He would have said it too, he'd drunk more then enough to let his guard down, but Hermione reached up and placed her fingers over his lips.

"I couldn't bear it, Ron," she whispered, looking at him imploringly. "Not if you can't be with me."

"Hermione, I can't. . . not right now," he said painfully, his words muffled as they slipped past her fingers. "I wish I could explain."

"You don't have to," she sighed. "I really do understand."

He kissed the tip of one finger that was tracing the curve of his bottom lip. He grasped her hand, and drew his lips over the lines on her palm. Then lower, kissing the inside of her wrist reverently. He loved her small hand, so smooth, but very capable.

She was the most amazing woman he knew. . .

The words were just there, right in the back of his throat, begging to be said, but he heeded her wishes and leaned down to kiss her instead. The whiskey may have started the job, but Hermione finished it, he was drunk with the taste of her. The night had him enthralled, it was so surreal, it had to be a dream, but it wasn't. Everything was startlingly real.

He might not be able to tell her he loved her, but nothing was stopping him from showing her.

When morning came, he made a point not to wake her. He got dressed in silence, forcing himself not to look towards Hermione, still beautiful and naked on the floor. He'd never be able to leave if he did. That's how close he'd been to staying, a simple glance would have changed his fate, but he never once turned back. Ron silently disapparated away, not realizing that he'd left far more than his heart behind.

OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Readers 18 or older. . . Feel free to search for unedited versions of my stories on The Quidditch Pitch (another fan fiction site) I write under the pennames of Bluerain and Redblaze :D

And if you're interested in updates on all of my writing. . . Feel free to follow me:

On facebook—Kele Moon

On twitter: Kele_Moon


End file.
